Existential Crap
I’m sitting on the edge of a cliff, feet dangling. Out in front of me is an expanse, the desert, the prairie, the ocean it doesn’t matter. It’s fucking big and faraway. Its enormity in its emptiness weighs on me like a wet sack. I sit on this mountain the only obstruction in this clear smooth surface of existence. It’s a really big mountain. Have you thought about how much presence a mountain demands? Just think about how much smaller you are, a spec of dust a twig snapped from a branch fallen from a tree that grows violently from the coarse rock surface.
The awareness of where I am sinks in around me. The space where you exist dragged, kicking clawing scratching through time slaps you across your face. Walking to the store, sitting at a window, lying in bed.
Time passes fast but lingers forever. Before I knew it twenty-two years had passed, but when you think about it that’s the history of the world for me. All I know of anything has happened in those twenty-two years. So no matter how fast they’ve come, they’ve still taken all the time in the world.
I find it so hard to speak or write or communicate. As I type and think words, ideas and feelings fall off and fade away. As if all of my thoughts are on a table and when I reach out to grab them I push others off the backside.
I think nothing in terms of communication, its all pictures. I’m tying to learn to write things down like I see them. I wish I could talk in pictures, Id make a lot more sense. None of these words are enough. I wonder how it would feel to send the images in my brain too someone. How true understanding would feel. Every image a person sees is open too interruption, one man’s blue is another man’s purple. But the images in your mind if you have them are not, they bend and sway with the waves of your mood, but they are still yours and what you interpret of them is always right. Would it be right to someone else if them could see them?
The awareness of where I am sinks in around me. The space where you exist dragged, kicking clawing scratching through time slaps you across your face. Walking to the store, sitting at a window, lying in bed.
Time passes fast but lingers forever. Before I knew it twenty-two years had passed, but when you think about it that’s the history of the world for me. All I know of anything has happened in those twenty-two years. So no matter how fast they’ve come, they’ve still taken all the time in the world.
I find it so hard to speak or write or communicate. As I type and think words, ideas and feelings fall off and fade away. As if all of my thoughts are on a table and when I reach out to grab them I push others off the backside.
I think nothing in terms of communication, its all pictures. I’m tying to learn to write things down like I see them. I wish I could talk in pictures, Id make a lot more sense. None of these words are enough. I wonder how it would feel to send the images in my brain too someone. How true understanding would feel. Every image a person sees is open too interruption, one man’s blue is another man’s purple. But the images in your mind if you have them are not, they bend and sway with the waves of your mood, but they are still yours and what you interpret of them is always right. Would it be right to someone else if them could see them?